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  Unless his parents were covering for him, I thought. Why would he be visiting his grandmother in another state the night before school began? I didn’t say anything about the article I’d read, but I didn’t have to. Dad had seen it, as well.

  “This same thing happened in Tennessee just a few days ago. We think it was some guy traveling through town, looking to stir up a little trouble.”

  Mom reached for her glass of wine. “Well, it certainly is strange.”

  Dad shrugged. “It’s probably a one-time thing. This guy tagged the town and moved on. Some other town will get those gorillas next.”

  “Tagged?” Mom asked.

  “It’s what they call it now.”

  After dinner I went to my room to work on my history paper. I had looked up some definitions of art and tried to find a clever way to use them. The problem, I discovered, was that no one could come up with one single definition for art. It didn’t have to be beautiful if it was considered “significant.” But who decided what was significant?

  I figured I could spend hours on the question and still not come up with an answer, so I decided to use a quote from Hippocrates because I knew Mr. Gildea liked the Greeks. “Vita brevis, ars longa,” I typed at the top of the page. Then I included the translation: “Life is short, art endures.” I argued that the gorillas on the school wall weren’t really art because, in the end, they would not endure. They would be removed within the month, and if they had truly been art, wouldn’t someone want to keep them around longer? I knew it wasn’t the most solid argument, but I figured the ancient Greek quote would earn me some points and besides, weren’t all teachers supposed to be opposed to defacing school property? Mr. Gildea would like it, I was sure.

  I put away my schoolwork and got ready for bed. I couldn’t stop thinking about the wall. I was sure Trent was behind it, but maybe someone was helping him. Maybe Brady and Reva were working with Trent, not just covering for him, but painting, as well. I told myself to stop coming up with conspiracy theories and get some sleep, but I couldn’t seem to turn off my brain. As I was drifting off, another thought occurred to me: what if Eli was helping Trent?

  3

  DAD WAS ONLY PARTLY RIGHT about the graffiti leaving town. The gorillas did appear in another state, on the side of an abandoned restaurant in Beulah, Arkansas, a small town east of Little Rock. This time, two gorillas were pictured, and the thought bubble above their heads read “We love vegetarians.” It appeared three days after our school had been “decorated.” Suddenly it did not seem possible that Trent had been involved. There was just no way to drive all the way to Arkansas Wednesday after school, paint a building and be back in time for class on Thursday morning, which was exactly where Trent was.

  Dad knew about it, and an online search for “gorilla graffiti” would lead someone to several articles, but most people didn’t know or didn’t care. Trent seemed happy enough to take credit for the prank at our school, and everyone seemed happy enough to give it to him. His adoring league of freshmen followers quickly squashed any rumors that he wasn’t responsible for the popular artwork. Still, something felt off to me, although I wasn’t sure what it was. I guess part of me hoped that Cleary did have a resident graffiti artist. The mural had caused a commotion and shattered our boring routine, if only for a little while.

  On Friday, the gorilla mural at school changed. Someone had added to it. “This is art” was stenciled in the right-hand corner of the wall. One of the gorillas was now holding a paintbrush while another grasped a spray-paint can. Again, it looked professional. And again, it caused an uproar.

  “It’s just stupid,” Tiffany Werner proclaimed during our first period debate. “I mean, they’re going to sandblast it this weekend, right? So what’s the point of adding to it? It’s a desperate cry for attention.”

  I was reminded of the quote I had used in my paper defining art. I had written that it wasn’t art if it did not endure. At the time, I’d believed it. I mean, all truly great art had endured, right? How old was the Mona Lisa?

  Lan raised her hand, and Mr. Gildea nodded at her. “If he wants attention, then why has the artist remained anonymous?” she asked. “What if he doesn’t want anything but for us to look at it, to enjoy it? Isn’t that what art is for?”

  I knew Lan was just disagreeing with Tiffany for the sake of disagreeing with her. Lan had come to school on Tuesday wearing her favorite orchid pin, the one made with hundreds of little stones in different shades of ivory and red. Tiffany noticed it and stopped in front of Lan’s desk before class began.

  “Are those real rubies?” she demanded in front of everyone.

  “Of course,” Lan said, making sure to look Tiffany directly in the eye.

  Tiffany just smirked. “I’ll bet,” she said before walking away. Lan was furious and since then had been looking for any reason at all to make Tiffany look bad in public. So far, she had achieved only minor success.

  Brady Barber agreed with Lan’s opinion about the graffiti artist, and the debate was soon picking up speed—and volume. Mr. Gildea finally had to quiet everyone down and tell us to open our books. We were already behind, he said, but we could debate for ten minutes every morning as long as we remained civil with one another.

  “Debate is probably the best learning experience you’ll ever have,” he said. “Second best, of course, will be learning about the Carthaginians. Turn to page sixteen.”

  I was relieved to finally get off the topic of the school gorillas. It was getting a little crazy. The local paper had featured a picture of the mural on its front page, and of course our student newspaper dedicated two whole pages to it, interviewing nearly everyone. I’d heard that some kids were planning to protest the sandblasting, scheduled for Saturday, but figured it was just another one of Trent’s crazy ideas. He had a real knack for self-promotion.

  I was still thinking about it when I arrived at work. I was expecting to find Bonnie, but Eli was there, working on his math homework.

  “Bonnie’s not here?” I asked.

  “Don’t worry, she left you something,” he said.

  A tall cup of caramel latte sat on the counter. I smiled and took a sip. “You know, I have these five days a week, and I’m telling you, they just keep getting better.”

  “You keep drinking those and you’re going to become a caramel latte,” Eli muttered. He was furiously erasing a problem in his notebook. I was about to offer him some help when I heard the toilet flush.

  “I thought you said Bonnie left?”

  “She did.”

  The bathroom door opened and Reva Abbott sauntered out. There were two things I always noticed about Reva: her heels and her nails. She wore tall, spiky heels that made a sharp clipping sound against the floor. I tried wearing high heels to school once, but my feet were killing me before the end of second period. I didn’t know how Reva did it. Also, she had the longest nails I’d ever seen on a girl. They were like talons, and she painted them in bright, unusual colors like turquoise or orange. That day they were deep purple, like an eggplant.

  Reva stopped when she saw me, gave me a thin smile and turned to Eli.

  “I’m leaving,” she said. Eli barely looked up from his work. Reva bent down and whispered something into his ear, her dark nails tickling the back of his neck. I turned away, flustered by the intimacy of it.

  I stared out the window, watching cars and warming my hands around the steaming cup of latte. When a blue SUV sped past, I immediately thought of Kevin. He had driven a similar car. After prom we had spent some time in the backseat. Nothing too heavy, just a little making out while Black Sabbath played in the CD player. Kevin was really into classic rock.

  “Sorry about that.”

  I was pulled from my thoughts by Eli. When I turned around, I was surprised to see that Reva was gone. I hadn’t heard her leave.

  “Oh, no problem.”

  “She gave me a ride,” Eli explained.

  “Right. You don’t have a car.”


  I didn’t have a car, either, mainly because of my dad. He said he’d seen too much to let a teenager behind the wheel. “When you’re eighteen, we’ll talk,” he’d promised. When I complained to Mom that it was completely unfair, she sided with Dad. “We just need to know that you can be responsible,” she said, which was infuriating, because when had I ever not been responsible? I did well in school, went to work and came home every night for dinner. Most parents would consider me their dream child. My parents saw me as one tenuous step away from a tragic life of wild teenage debauchery.

  “This summer,” Eli said. “That is, my parents said they’d get me a car if I pass math.” He ripped a page from his notebook and wadded it into a sharp ball. “So maybe I won’t be getting a car,” he said with a bitter laugh.

  “What are you working on?”

  “Precalculus.”

  “You are so lucky you know me,” I joked as I sat down next to him. “Because I just happen to be a precalc expert.”

  “Lucky me,” Eli agreed, although he sounded less than enthusiastic. A car pulled up to the window and Eli automatically got up while I read over his book. After he had finished with the order, Eli slumped into the chair and sighed. “It’s no use,” he informed me. “I can’t learn this stuff. Trust me. My brain cannot process numbers.”

  I wondered if Eli’s dark mood was due more to Reva’s brief visit than from problems with precalculus. I sensed there were problems between them. Eli always seemed to pull away from her, to be uncomfortable with her, in a way. Or maybe he was just embarrassed by public displays of affection. He was one of those guys, I thought, that liked to stay in the background, someone who didn’t like or need the glow of the spotlight.

  Reva, on the other hand, was more outspoken. She wore heavy red lipstick and always smelled faintly of cigarette smoke. On the rare occasions I had heard her laugh, she was loud. I got the impression that she wanted people to look in her direction and see her with one arm draped across Eli.

  I wasn’t sure why Reva disliked me, but Lan had a theory. “She’s the possessive type. She’s suspicious of any girl within a mile of him, and you work next to him every day.”

  “So? It doesn’t mean I want to date him,” I argued.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Lan had replied. “You’re a threat.”

  It was laughable to me that anyone would see me as a threat, but I knew Lan had a point. I thought about this as I leaned over to help Eli with a calculus problem. He smelled very clean, like soap and mint mouthwash. I suddenly felt self-conscious and hoped that I smelled okay, too.

  We went through Eli’s assignment slowly, getting up every few minutes to serve a customer. Eli struggled with some of the problems, and I tried to break it down for him as best I could. I was very aware of his breathing, which made it difficult for me to concentrate. At one point, I realized that we were breathing in rhythm with one another, and it was all I could think about.

  It took us about an hour to get through his homework, but he seemed a little more positive once we finished.

  “Thanks,” he said as he put away his book. “That helped. Maybe I can pass this class.”

  “Of course you can,” I said, then felt immediately stupid. I hoped I didn’t sound like his mother.

  A car pulled up, its bass pumping so hard that the windows rattled.

  “You guys sell burgers?” someone yelled. I was about to snap that no, we certainly did not sell fast food when Eli leaned out the window to slap hands with the driver. It was Trent Adams. Eli told him to come on in, so Trent parked his car and came around to the back.

  If you saw Trent walking down the street you might assume that he played basketball. He was long and skinny and kept his dark blond hair buzzed. I could see why Lan, like half the girls at our school, found him so attractive.

  “Hey, Kate,” Trent said. He looked around for a place to sit, decided that the room was too small and leaned against the wall instead.

  “Hi, Trent. You want something to drink?”

  “Kate makes an awesome latte,” Eli said.

  Trent shook his head. “No. Thanks, though.” He looked at Eli. “You ready for tonight?”

  Eli stiffened. I thought I saw him tilt his head toward me. Trent glanced in my direction. “So, Kate,” he said, switching topics completely. “Brady tells me your history class has gotten kind of interesting.”

  My very first thought was that he was referring to our unit on the Carthaginians and was making a joke. Then I realized that he meant the morning debates.

  “Yeah, it’s kind of a Tiffany versus Brady type thing,” I said.

  “I heard Lan was taking on Her Majesty, as well.”

  I knew Lan would be thrilled when I talked to her later on and told her that Trent had actually mentioned her in conversation. I smiled. “Lan takes on a lot of things,” I said. We laughed, even though I wasn’t quite sure what I’d said that was so funny. I felt a little uncomfortable around Trent, like I had to try and impress him. I wanted him to think I was okay, but I didn’t know why I needed his approval.

  “Hey, Kate, we’ll lock up tonight, okay?” Eli’s back was to me as he stacked cups that didn’t really need stacking.

  “Oh. Okay, sure.” I was confused. Eli seemed suddenly cold. He wasn’t looking at me and I wondered if I’d said something to upset him.

  “Nice seein’ you, Kate,” Trent said.

  I took this as my cue to leave and gathered up my bag and pulled on my jacket. I left without saying goodbye to Eli and waited outside for my dad to arrive. I didn’t have to wait long, but the entire time all I could think of was how I had been kicked out of the one place where I always felt I belonged.

  EDEN ALDER WAS HAVING a heart attack. At least, that’s what she told us on Monday at lunch. As editor of the Cleary Chronicle, our school newspaper, Eden had a “gut-wrenching” decision to make about the front page of the next issue: should she give lead-article status to the late-night protest over the “school mural” (as it was now being called) or Tiffany Werner’s birthday party?

  The choice seemed simple to me, but Eden was in full-out panic mode. She had three hours until deadline and her staff was in an uproar. Half wanted the protest to be featured front and center while the other half argued that it was old news and had already been covered in the local papers. Tiffany’s party, however, was fresh news and of much more interest to the average Cleary High School student.

  Lan and I listened to Eden as we ate our lunches. I, for one, was glad to be discussing something other than Trent Adams. I had spent the weekend at Lan’s house, and all she wanted to talk about was her current crush.

  “How did his voice sound when he said my name?” she asked as she made banana spring rolls. Ever since the ninth grade Lan had made it her mission in life to get me to try new foods. At her insistence, I had sampled sweet mung bean soup and carp cooked in coconut milk and thang long fish cakes. If it were up to me, I’d live on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, but I appreciated Lan’s efforts to expand my culinary horizons. Every once in a while, she made something that I loved, but most of the time I couldn’t figure out what animal I was eating and wasn’t sure I really wanted to know.

  “His voice? It sounded the way it always sounds,” I had replied.

  Lan looked like she was concentrating hard on a complex chemical equation. “I need more information,” she said. “Help me out here.”

  In the end, I retold the story of Trent’s brief visit to Something’s Brewing about a hundred times, never altering a detail. I didn’t talk about how it made me feel to have Eli give me the cold shoulder. Lan wasn’t really interested in that, anyway. She wanted to talk about Trent again at school that morning, and of course rehash it at lunch, but Eden’s dilemma had taken center stage, much to my relief.

  Eden sat with her head in her hands, moaning about the tough decisions she was forced to make while Lan and I tried to offer our sympathy.

  “I mean, it’s only the
most important decision of my life!” Eden wailed. I glanced at Lan, who was picking at a salad. Eden had a tendency to exaggerate—not exactly a good quality in a journalist.

  “I think it’s pretty clear,” I said. “The protest is much more interesting. It affected more students directly.”

  “But that’s just it,” Eden said. “Only three boys were arrested, and they were released with a warning two hours later. No big deal. But the party? That affects hundreds of students.”

  Tiffany Werner had announced on Friday that she was, indeed, throwing a party.

  A big party.

  To quote Tiffany exactly, “The biggest party this town has ever seen.” Her parents had rented out the country club, hired a band and booked caterers to celebrate Tiffany’s sixteenth birthday, which was, for some reason, a huge event. Monumental, people said. As if girls didn’t turn sixteen every day of the year and therefore it was a rare milestone that required a celebration ten times bigger than most people’s weddings.

  There were a few people on the Cleary Chronicle staff who argued that Tiffany’s party would cause issues to fly off the shelves, or in the case of the Cleary Chronicle, to be plucked off the tables set up outside the cafeteria.

  Tiffany’s story held a hint of mystery: two hundred and fifty students would be invited, but no one had yet received an invitation. The protest story had a bit of violence: a few kids had thrown bottles and were escorted “downtown,” where they had to wait in a holding cell until their parents came to pick them up. My dad had been there, cuffing freshmen and putting them in the backseat of his car. I didn’t ask for specifics and he didn’t offer any, but it was all over school and people were giving me some distance when I walked down the hallways as if I had something to do with it.

  “But, Eden,” I argued, “you’re always saying that the school paper is like a time capsule. When people look back on this issue in ten years, what do you think they’ll find more important? A student protest or a birthday party?”